Remembering Christmas (21 page)

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Authors: Drew Ferguson

BOOK: Remembering Christmas
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Outside, a gentle snow has started to fall. Hard to believe tomorrow is actually Christmas Eve. Again, I'll spend the daytime hours at Farmer Jack's. Hopefully, it won't be too busy. But I'm sure it will. Thankfully the store closes at seven. Then it's home to make a quick change, and off to my grandfather's for our annual Paterno family party. Growing up, I always envied my cousin Rhonda, who would bring her steady boyfriend to all our family gatherings. The only time I ever took anyone along was sophomore year when I dated Alyssa. And even then, I introduced her as my “sometimes” girlfriend. Don't know what the hell I was thinking!
Surely it's too early to consider asking Kirk to come with. Besides, he's got his own festivities to frequent. But maybe in the late evening, after the fact, we can sneak away somewhere. I've always enjoyed attending midnight mass, and being that Kirk is Catholic, this would supply us with an excuse to see each other. . . . I'll have to remember to bring it up.
Our waitress returns with our beverages. Before she heads back to the kitchen, she grins, giving us a look that says, “Aren't you a cute couple?”
And for once, I can officially agree....
We are!
Right Here, Right Now
I was alive and I waited, waited
I was alive and I waited for this . . .
—Jesus Jones
 
 
 
 
 
T
o quote Blair Warner from
The Facts of Life
: “I've just had another one of my brilliant ideas.” Don't ask me why I didn't think of it sooner. Tonight, after I'm freed from The Farmer, Kirk and I will finally consummate our love.
As anticipated,
le supermarché
is a madhouse of aisle-to-aisle shoppers. But I'm so excited about this evening, I can't even be bothered to complain. As soon as I get the H-E-double hockey sticks out of this place, to my parents' house I will go, pack my bag, and get the H-E-double hockey sticks out of there. (Last night, I caught a rerun of
The Golden Girls,
and picked up that phrase from Rose Nylund. God, I love Betty White and hope she's around for a good long while!)
All I have to do is get through six simple hours.
To accomplish this feat, every thirty minutes I stop by the produce department and pop a Starlight mint into my mouth. The sugar buzz keeps me bopping around the store's perimeter, putting back what we in the grocery biz like to call “under stock.” As of 7:00 p.m., we've got eight buggies parked over by register nine, full of items customers decided they didn't care to purchase. On a normal night, we get like two, three tops, so this trivial chore is going to take extra time. But again, I won't complain. Because I am young and in love—and about to get laid!
“Somebody's in a good mood. . . .”
Val catches me singing to myself while restocking day-old Danish on the shelves outside the Hearth Oven. But she's wrong....
“I'm in a
great
mood,” I correct, before giving her all the gory details of the budding romance between “Kirsty” and Jack.
“Congratulations!”
Even though she says this with total enthusiasm, Val seems a tad bit disappointed. Not that I assume she's still carrying a torch for yours truly. But there's a definite glint in her eye that says she doesn't want to see me with another girl. Thankfully she won't have to! Someday I'll come clean with her, I promise. At the present moment, I haven't got time to start baring my soul.
“Jack . . . take your break.”
Around eight o'clock, the head cashier on duty, Therese, utters my three favorite Farmer Jack's–related words. She's a perky little blonde around thirty, with whom I've worked since the beginning of my career in the commercial food industry. Immediately, I make my way into the vestibule to partake of the pay phone. It's been four hours since I last spoke to Kirk, and I already miss him. Plus I'm getting antsy about our big outing tonight.
“I'll pick you up around eleven thirty,” I inform him. “Don't forget to bring your sleeping clothes.”
“What exactly are we doing?” he wonders.
“I told you,” I tell him, “that's for me to know, and you to find out.”
Ever the Machiavelli, on our way back from Metro Music Café earlier this afternoon, I came up with a plot as to how Kirk and I can finally spend some much-needed one-on-one time together. I kept thinking how awesome it would be if he and I had someplace we could go and be alone. By which I mean
intimate.
If only we knew someone with their own house or apartment. Someone who could loan it to us for even just an hour. Or preferably, the entire night. And then I remembered....
Shortly after we graduated high school, thanks to his deadbeat dad, Brad's poor mom ended up forfeiting the home he grew up in over on Wanda in Ferndale. Back in the 1950s, the house itself used to be a small grocery store. Once Brad's father bought the building, he converted it into a residential dwelling, dubbing it “Dayton's Depot.” We had some good times in that house, me and Brad, swinging on the chandeliers that hung from the twenty-foot ceilings in the front room. (Just kidding! Though we always said we were going to, we never actually made an attempt. Laura Victor-Dayton-Victor would've killed us.) Unfortunately, on the salary she made working at Detroit Osteopathic Hospital, Laura wasn't able to keep up with the bills, on top of feeding Brad and his three sisters.
Even after her eldest daughter, Janelle, found herself in “a family way” and moved out to get married, and only son Bradley spent all his time busting his butt waiting tables at Big Boy's, there were still his younger siblings to look after. Which is why Laura later accepted the proposal of a man named Albert, allowing “Dayton's Depot” to fall by the wayside, and moved herself, Nina, and Brittany in with her new husband. Sadly, the marriage ended prematurely, and Laura and the girls are now living over in Madison Heights. As for Brad, he's been renting a room in the upstairs of a house belonging to his father off Van Dyke, over in Warren.... Directly across the street from Kirk's father's pro shop, B & B Sporting Goods, coincidentally enough.
Which is exactly where we are now, me and Mr. Bailey.
“What are we doing here?” The second we spot the Shopper's Market on the corner of Maxwell and pull up across the street, Kirk starts giving me the third degree.
“Spending the night,” I say, cutting the engine and turning off the lights. “Now be quiet and come on.”
Lifting the hatch on the back of my Omni, I reach inside and grab our overnight bags. Save for the glow of the streetlight and one left-on Christmas tree twinkling in the window of the house across the way, the road is dark and deserted.... It's also freezing! Which is why Kirk and I scurry up to the side door where I desperately dig through my coat pocket in search of the key Brad dropped off earlier when I was still at work. Which promptly I locate—and immediately let fall to the frozen tundra.
“Careful!” Kirk cries, as if I meant to commit such a stupid folly.
“I got gloves on,” I remind him. “It slipped right out of my fingers.”
Down on the hard ground I go, digging around for the tiny piece of silver attached to the tacky plastic ring proclaiming,
Niagara Falls Is for Lovers
. If it weren't for the fact that we trip the motion sensor hanging high above our heads, I don't think we'd ever find the stupid thing. But thank God we finally do, buried deep within a bank of snow.
Wouldn't you know? The stupid lock must be frozen because now the stupid key won't fit inside. No matter which direction I try—teeth up or down—it's no use. Knowing Brad, he probably gave me the wrong key; that's how absentminded he is.
“Stick it in!” Teeth chattering away, Kirk hisses in my ear as he snuggles up close behind me for warmth.
As ticked off as I am, how can I resist seizing the opportunity to be obnoxious? “That comes later.”
Though I can't help but wonder (without getting too graphic), what exactly is going to happen once Kirk and I—to steal a phrase from one of Aunt Sonia's favorite country songs—get “behind closed doors”? And to borrow from Detroit's own Miss Aretha Franklin, who's gonna be zooming who? Guess that's one thing we'll have to figure out . . . If we can ever break into this stupid building!
Giving it the old heave-ho, I finally manage to force the door open, and into the damp and dark entryway we disappear. I believe there's a light switch somewhere. But I'm not about to turn it on at this time of night. As far as I know, Brad's dad is home and asleep in bed. The last thing I want to do is wake up the man. (“Good evening, Mr. Dayton . . . Remember me, Jack Paterno? Bradley's best friend since seventh grade. This is my
boy
friend, Kirk Bailey. We're here to get it on in your son's bedroom.”)
“Now what?” Having never been here before, Kirk has no idea where we're heading.
“Up the stairs,” I instruct, “and all the way down. The door at the end of the hall.”
I do find it a tad bit odd that Brad's
renting
a room in his own father's home. But the way his dad has set up the place, it is more like an apartment. Brad's got his own separate entrance, along with private bedroom and bathroom. Where Kirk has just stopped off while I forge ahead to what I'm calling our “love den” and will commence getting things ready.
Inside the room, I don't dare turn on the lamp. Again, God forbid Mr. Dayton should for some reason notice there's someone upstairs. As far as he's concerned, Brad's over spending the night at Max's dad's. I have to say, I've got the greatest friend in the whole wide world. Who else would give up sleeping in the comfort of their own bed, just so his best pal could get lucky? Thankfully Brad understands just how much Kirk means to me. After my incessant rambling about the guy every time I call or have come home for the past three months, how could he not?
Either Mr. Dayton really is a deadbeat or he's taking a lesson from my father when it comes to being a tightwad because Brad's bedroom is colder than a witch's tit! The last thing I'm going to want to do is take off my clothes. Looks like Kirk and I will have to rely on our love to keep us warm. Not to mention our body heat. Also the candles that I've brought along and light one by one, strategically placing them around the abode.
Don't that look pur-ty!
Reaching into my bag, I remove the bottle of white zinfandel purchased before picking up Kirk, pop the sucker open, and pour two paper cups full. All we need now is some romantic music. The question is: what does Brad have in his cassette collection? Much to my surprise, I come upon the perfect selection . . . by none other than Mr. George Winston. From this day forward, whenever I hear these eight opening chords, my memory will transport me back to this most special of evenings.
December 23, 1991.
“Oh, my God!” Kirk shivers the second he crosses the threshold. Glancing about the room, he seems rather surprised to see what I've done with our humble surroundings.
“Ta-dah!”
He reaches out, takes me in his frozen-stiff arms, tickling me with frigid fingers.
“Don't do that!” I cry, arctic chills running up and down my spine.
Struggling to free myself from his glacial grasp, Kirk reels me back in. “So what are we doing here?” he says softly as we nuzzle noses.
“I told you,” I tease. “We're spending the night . . .
alone
.”
“But it's so cold.”
“Allow me to warm you up.”
Our lips meet, and we share a tender kiss. This action turns more aggressive as tongues entwine, hearts begin beating faster, and hands start doing their thing. Clothes fall into a heap on the floor beside the bed. Which we barely manage to pull back the covers on before collapsing into it. Luckily Brad assured me he'd supply us with fresh sheets. . . . Who knows the mess we're about to make?
Looking over at the lit face of the clock atop the dresser, I take a mental note of the time: ten past midnight.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” I whisper in Kirk's ear, accompanied by a gentle love bite on the lobe.
“Merry Christmas Eve.”
His weight crushes me. But I could care less. I've spent the last how many months longing to feel him this close. Now here we are, two bodies becoming one, like in every love story I've ever seen in the movies and on TV: from
The Blue Lagoon
to
Ice Castles
to
Somewhere in Time
. Only we're not a pair of cousins stranded on a deserted island, or a champion figure skater and her hockey player boyfriend, or a playwright and the woman he traveled sixty-eight years to find.
We're just a couple of college-aged guys who want nothing more than to be together. . . .
For what I hope is the first of
many
Christmases to come.

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